


Clothes Make The Man

by Lenore



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Community: kink_bingo, Episode Tag, M/M, Roleplay, domestic/tradesman kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You need to fully inhabit the skin of a man like John Reed. You're wearing his suit. Tell me what you know about him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothes Make The Man

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [По одежде встречают](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071481) by [Isei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isei/pseuds/Isei)



> Written for the Domestic/Tradesman Kink square of my [Kink Bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card. Spoilers for "Risk." Please be aware that there is roleplay of a somewhat dub-con-ish situation.

It's the inseam that proves the last straw, after a very long morning of provocation: Harold down on his knees, straight pins poking out from between pinched lips, his hands moving with brisk efficiency over John's body, touching him with a casual sense of ownership. The very last straw, the way Finch's fingers ride up the inside of John's thigh, almost, almost—not quite.

"What's wrong with my other suit?" he asks, dodging Finch's hands, hoping he sounds irritable rather than strained.

"Clothes make the man, Mr. Reese." Finch wrangles John back where he wants him.  
"I feel certain you understand that."

John smiles faintly, a gallows expression, as Finch's hands once more take up their mission to unravel his self-control. "Are you complimenting my fashion sense, Harold?"

"Simply observing that your usual attire seems very consciously chosen. You weren't born the man in the suit. It obviously has meaning for you." Harold's blue eyes shine with inquisitiveness as he peers up at John.

John has made his peace with Harold's ability to dig the stray minutiae of his life out of the ether, but this uncanny knack for guessing at things that live only in John's head is a different matter altogether. The fact is, his suits do mean something to him. Before joining the agency, he'd spent his life in one sort of uniform or another: jeans with worn knees and college football team colors and military camouflage. A suit had never felt natural on his skin. Once he turned black ops, nothing he did felt natural either, and the transformation of his wardrobe just seemed to make sense.

"I could ask you the same thing, Harold," he says, voice cool and laconic, as if he's turning the tables just because he can. "It's a bit of a contradiction, isn't? A taste for bespoke suits and the ability to make one yourself."

Occasionally, John will catch a hint of Finch's origins in his accent, usually when Finch is exasperated or afraid for someone's life, the soft burr of the Midwest. Maybe Finch needs a dividing line as much as John does, the conscious separation between the person he is now—in all his mysteriousness—and the person he once was.

He and Finch keep turning out to be alike in unexpected ways.

Finch ignores him, not surprisingly, and concentrates on fine-tuning the hem on the right trouser leg. "You can study books on finance, Mr. Reese, and I have no doubt you'll master them. But to achieve our ends, you need to fully inhabit the skin of a man like John Reed. You're wearing his suit. Tell me what you know about him."

"Finch—"

"Mr. Reese."

John lets out his breath. "He's confident. He owns every room he walks into."

"True, although perhaps not the most startling insight imaginable." Finch head is bent, but John doesn't need to see his face to know that dry twist of his lips.

An answer swims up from the pool of things that are better left ignored. John shouldn't go there, but it's been a long morning of provocation, and Finch did ask for it. "He's a man of appetites. Money. Drugs. Power. Sex. He gets what he wants, by whatever means necessary." He draws his thumb along the line of Finch's cheek and feels smug at the startled intake of Finch's breath.

Finch blinks at him, just for a moment, and then there's a flash of knowingness, very Finch, and his expression slowly transforms. He looks almost—timid. John has never imagined that from on him.

"Mr. Reed," he says, an uncertain lilt to the words.

"Harold." He drags his thumb across Finch's mouth.

He's not really sure what they're doing or how far this will go, but if Finch wants to play, he's going to play.

"Is everything okay, Mr. Reed? Do you not like the suit?" Finch's voice cracks anxiously, and John makes a note to send him out into the field more often. Acting skills like those shouldn't go to waste.

"The suit is fine," John says, in the smooth, insinuating tones of a born manipulator. "But we do need to talk about how you've been touching me, Harold."

Harold wets his lips nervously. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reed. I wasn't—I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"But you did, Harold." John abandons all caution, reaches for Finch's hand, and guides it to his erection. "You've made me very uncomfortable."

For a moment, he thinks maybe he's gone too far, but Harold strokes him through his trousers, just the briefest touch, not entirely in character. "You've always been a really good customer, Mr. Reed. I wouldn't want to lose your business." His eyes are wide and worried, even as he strokes John again.

"Oh, I don't think it needs to come to that, Harold. I'm sure you'll find a way to make good on it." He glances meaningfully down at his crotch, because men like Reed can be sly, but they're rarely subtle.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Reed. Leave it to me. I'll—I can—right away—" Finch babbles as he undoes John's belt and pushes down his fly.

Finch slants hesitant glance up at him— _is this what you want, am I doing it right?_. It's a moment that a man like Reed would prize.

 _You don't have to_ , but John doesn't say it. Reed never would, and Finch has to know that John wouldn't—that he really _doesn't have to_.

John has been hard half the morning, and his cock surges at just the barest brush of Finch's fingers over the cotton of his briefs. This gains him a sharp, fleeting look of smugness, not the timid tailor at all, and John knows he'll think about that later, picture it behind his eyes when he touches himself.

It hasn't been that long since someone sucked him off. Soldiers learn to be straightforward about their physical demands. John has no compunction about buying a warm, willing mouth when he needs it. So he can't plead deprivation when he almost loses it at the first touch of Finch's tongue, almost moans out loud, something a controlling bastard like John Reed never would.

Finch tightens his grip on John's hips: maybe to remind John who he's supposed to be or maybe because he likes being able to make John sound so desperate. Finch tightens his lips around John's cock and flicks his tongue and bobs his head—and gives himself away. He's done this before, and he's good at it. John will think about that later, when he's capable of thinking.

A man like Reed would never be content with this, of course, wouldn't settle for anything less than fucking the timid little tailor's mouth. Finch's gaze is fixed intently on John, clearly expecting just that. But John doesn't care if that's would Reed would do. Reed's not getting what he wants, not this time.

John ignores that it's insane to be jealous of a fiction.

He smooths a hand over Finch's hair. It's softer than it looks, and John lingers a moment, stroking. Something warms sparks in Finch's eyes, something personal. His hand creeps up to cup John's balls, and he does something with his tongue that makes John shudder, and he takes John's cock impossibly deep into his throat, competitive, intent on dazzling. John has to smile, even as he's grabbing at Finch's shoulders, because this is what he really wants, his brilliant, enigmatic boss. Partner.

Friend, John sometimes allows himself to think.  
"Finch!" he calls out when he comes.

Afterward, he zips up and restrains the urge to give Finch a hand as he gets stiffly to his feet.

"I'm satisfied with the cuffs," Finch announces, sliding seamlessly back into his persona as benevolent dictator. "I'll send the suit out to be pressed tonight. You'll be ready to take on Wall Street first thing in the morning."

It's brisk and business-like, and there's nothing to say to that. John goes back to the alcove where he left his clothes and changes. Finch has already taken up his place in front of the computer when John returns. He studies the set of Finch's shoulders, the lines around his mouth, looking for signs of regret—or maybe just an acknowledgment that it happened at all.

Finch just looks like Finch. John's not sure how to interpret that

"While you're brushing up on your knowledge of finance, I'll keep an eye on Mr. Saunders," Finch tells him, his focus fixed on the computer screen.

John nods and turns, heading for the exit, and stops. "Harold—"

"Goodnight, Mr. Reese." It sounds perfectly neutral, but there's a slight, speculative almost-smile hovering at the corners of Finch's mouth.

John idly wonders who he'll need to be to get Finch to kiss him.

"Goodnight, Harold."


End file.
